A Poor Attempt of at Creative Writing

He never liked going down into the basement. But every time he stepped on the staircase memories immediately came over him and he just could not resist. Although he did not like coming down to the basement, he always tried to find an excuse for going there.
This time, for example, he was going there to get a pair of warm shoes. It was still warm outside, but last days recently it had been a little more windy and rainy, so the need was urgent.
He opened the door and switched on the light. The air was damp and musty, and he could feel the smell of the rotten wood. The shoes were somewhere inside the huge box that stood in the far corner, but he had to pass the tall shelves filled with junk in order to get there.
He took the first photo album that came to hands he could grab. It was an old family album, which belonged to his parents and was filled with pictures from their youth. He knew each one of them by heart, he knew exactly what he would see when he turned over the pages. He saw faces of his family members, most of them were smiling. His mother was the only one who never smiled at the camera when a picture was taken. But she was always smiling in the real life. She rarely laughed, but she would constantly give you a smile and a keen look whenever you came into her sight. Even now, from the picture, she was looking straight into his eyes. She was looking at him as though she knew exactly was what he was feeling and what he had been going through. He just could not conceal hide anything from her. He felt ashamed of his weakness, of his inability to fight the circumstances. But she was not blaming him. She could not be blaming him, because she knew that the circumstances were stronger than him and they could not be overcome.

He looked at the black and white photo again. Could he remember the colour of his mother's eyes? Of course, yes, because he tookit over got his from her. But what colour were his own eyes?...
He looked up and saw a faint ray of light seeping through the dusty glass of a narrow window. The watch showed that it was already time to go to work. He put the heavy album carefully on in its place, took the shoes from the box and headed upstairs, leaving the door behind him open.

Do I even need to tell you how good your English is? :P Seriously, I had to really look hard to find something to correct. By being so darn smart and making so few mistakes, you'd think my job would be easier, but no - I had to read through this three times to find enough mistakes to actually feel like correcting this was worth it. So good job, no, amazing job, but next time Zilia - don't be so perfect. Please? :P

Of course, I'm just joking. ^^ But really, wow. This could have been the first draft of a story by a native English speaker. You write fantastic. Keep it up. :)