Why Does The Rain Fall? ✓

A/N: First place in the Ninjuly contest by NinjagoPunsPranksOrg.

. . .

The door to Lou's basement slowly creaked open and Cole stepped in. He stood on the landing and looked down at the stairs which descended away into darkness. Softly closing the door behind him, he made his way down, not bothered by the complete absence of light. His training required that he be able to work in the shadows so he had no trouble navigating through the dark.

His feet made no sound. Maybe it was because of the thick layer of dust and grime that coated the surface of the concrete steps or maybe only his soul floated over them. He had left his body in the world behind him; his father's house. He would always be a ghost in this basement, silent and quiet so as not to disturb the delicate memories this place stored. The delicate memories that brought him joy, happiness, regret and sorrow. The delicate memories of . . . her.

He hopped down from the last step and looked around the room. Though it was only two in the afternoon and the windows weren't covered, the basement was still partially dark due to the heavy clouds that loomed over Ninjago, shading the room grey. He had always seemed to like the dark. That way he could imagine that she was with him. But in brightness, he could clearly see that she wasn't there and no amount of pretending could contradict that fact.

He passed the wooden shelf that displayed paint cans, a deflated football, an old record player, his father's CD collection of classical music, lightbulbs, a toolbox and Christmas decorations. Not wanting to do anything with any of these things, he proceeded farther into the room but stopped short as his eye caught something behind the paint cans. His eyes now adjusted to the dark, he pushed aside the cans to reveal an old cardboard box on which was written in fading letters "Cole - 9 yrs old".

Careful not to topple over the metal paint containers, he pulled the box closer to the edge and heaved it off of the shelf. A cloud of dust erupted from it as he placed it on a nearby table under a grime coated window for more light. He waved his hand to clear away the dust, coughing and eyes watering. Looking inside, he saw all the toys and objects of value that belonged to him when his age was one year short from a decade. He smiled as he remembered that his father liked to keep everything in order. He'd organized all of Cole's belongings according to his age and put them in labeled boxes. The others must be around here somewhere.

Cole lowered his hand into the box and pulled out an old, picture frame. He tilted it and blew off the dust clinging to it. He squinted his eyes as he looked upon the yellowed picture of what looked like a school. Above the main doors, written in bold letters, were the words:
"Marty Oppenheimer School of Performing Arts".

There was a group of three on the entrance steps. The little boy, which he recognized as himself, had black and untidy hair and was wearing a kid-sized tuxedo and holding a glass plaque and a certificate. He was smiling broadly with the front tooth missing and a band-aid on one side of his jaw. On his right was his father; young, tall and handsome, also dressed in a tux and sporting a bow-tie. His moustache seemed to be curled up as he too was smiling from ear to ear, a hand on Cole's shoulder.

As his eyes roamed over to his left, his breath got caught in his throat. He now had to use his left hand as well to hold the frame as his right one was shaking. Kneeling beside him on the steps, kissing his cheek with arms around him in a hug, was his mother. Her copper-blonde hair were tied back into a ponytail. She was wearing a brown, leopard print blouse with black, skinny jeans and high heels.

Cole exhaled shakily and quickly put the picture back in the box. He closed his eyes and took in a few breathes, trying to regain his composure. He remembered that day perfectly. His school had hosted a dancing contest and his quartet had won. His parents had been extremely proud and so was he. Back then, he used to enjoy dancing. Why? Because of her. His mother, Lilly, always had a way to make him learn all the steps. His teachers, try as they might, never succeeded in improving his dancing. But she did. He loved those afternoons when the both of them would go out to the terrace with the CD player where his mom would dance flawlessly and teach him to do it. All the credit of that day at the contest went to his mother.