Read the following original contemporary non-fiction-style text.

The first rain in weeks had left the garden paths dark and shining. Water sat in the wheelbarrow in a perfect circle, and drops tapped from the shed roof into a bucket. I had come to help clear the beds, but for a while I stood at the gate with my gloves in my pocket. The garden seemed to be holding its breath.

A few people were already there. Mr Khan was lifting a plank from the path, and Jo was turning over a damp patch of soil with a fork. Nobody called across the garden. We exchanged nods, then went back to our separate jobs. The rain had softened the ground, but it had also pressed the young plants flat. Their leaves stuck to the earth like wet paper.

I began with the beans. One stem had folded almost double, its thin tendrils tangled around a label. I eased it upright and pushed a cane into the soil beside it. The first knot slipped. I tried again, slower this time, and tied the stem loosely enough to move in the breeze.

“Those survived, then,” Jo said.

She was holding a tray of seedlings under one arm. I looked along the row. Here and there, small green points had appeared between the clods. A blackbird landed on the fence, cocked its head, and hopped down to peck at the mud. For the first time that morning, I heard someone laugh.

Soon the garden was full of small sounds: the click of secateurs, the scrape of a spade, the rattle of the shed door as people fetched tools. Mr Khan began calling out which beds needed straw. Jo passed seedlings along the row, and I made space for them in the loosened earth. We stopped working separately. Each of us seemed to notice what the next person needed before they asked.

By lunchtime, the path was clear and the beans stood upright against their canes. The garden did not look untouched by the storm. Mud streaked the boards, and one flowerpot had split cleanly in two. But the beds were no longer flattened; they were marked with neat rows of new plants.

I rinsed the soil from my gloves in a bucket. The water turned brown, then settled. Around me, people packed away tools and compared muddy sleeves. Nobody made a speech about what we had done. The garden was simply quieter again, but it was not the same quiet as before. On the walk home, rainwater still shone in the cracks of the pavement, and I carried the smell of wet earth with me.