In the sleepy Hungarian village of Alsó-Kerekes, there stood a curious relic known to all as the "Kis kút kerekes kút"—the little well with the wheel. It sat right in front of the gate of a man nicknamed Kredenc, a towering figure with a heart as sturdy as the kitchen sideboard he was named after.

He began to turn. The wheel groaned, then settled into its familiar song. To everyone’s disbelief, a clear, icy stream of water splashed into the bucket. It was the only well for miles that hadn't run dry.

One blistering July, the Great Drought hit. The streams turned to cracked mud, and the larger, modern pumps in the village square began to cough up nothing but dust. The villagers grew desperate, watching their gardens wither under the relentless sun.

Kredenc stood by his gate, watching his neighbors pass with empty pails and heavy hearts. He stepped to the wheel. "Come on, old friend," he whispered.

"The big pumps try to take too much too fast," he said. "The little wheel knows how to wait for the earth to give."