In a year of terrible drought, Nakdimon ben Gorion — one of the three wealthiest men in Jerusalem — approached a Roman official and made a desperate bargain. He borrowed twelve wells full of water to supply the city's needs, promising to repay them by a certain date. If the wells were not refilled by then, Nakdimon would owe twelve talents of silver.
The deadline arrived. Not a drop of rain had fallen. The Roman came to collect his silver, practically gloating. Nakdimon asked for one more day. The Roman agreed. Noon passed. The afternoon wore on. The sky remained a sheet of burning copper.
The Roman went to the bathhouse, confident he would be richer by evening. At the same hour, Nakdimon went to the Temple. He wrapped himself in his prayer shawl, stood before God, and prayed: "Master of the Universe, it is known before You that I did not do this for my own glory, nor for the glory of my father's house, but for Your glory — so that the pilgrims would have water."
The sky darkened. Rain poured down in torrents. The twelve wells overflowed with fresh water.
The Roman emerged from the bathhouse to find the city drenched. But he had one objection: "The sun has already set. The rain fell after the deadline. You still owe me the silver." Nakdimon returned to the Temple and prayed again. The clouds parted. The sun broke through and shone once more before finally setting — extending the day itself beyond its natural limit. The Talmud in Taanit (19b-20a) records that the heavens bent twice for Nakdimon that day: once for rain, and once for sunlight.