The Card House at the End

The conclusion to a non-existent novel. Please enjoy in its entirety.

   At the end of the story he gets up very early in the morning, before anyone else in the house is awake. While it is still so cold outside that the windows are running with the excess moisture beads of downward running, expelled condensate from the escaped breath and body heat of the house's sleeping occupants, and, after taking a look through the window at the world outside, (of which only a tiny portion was visible), for some unknown reason on this particular day all of the view had appeared as if its colors had been drained from it, and it stood, black, white and all of the mid-tone grays in between. 
   Then, he took all of the hundreds of cards from all of the missing-many,-one,-or-maybe,-just-a-couple-missing in each of the different decks of these variously worn playing cards that he'd found on shelves, and in cupboards, and under the stairs, and, in an empty corner of the living room, where they’d all been inexplicably left by the house's former occupants
(Not that there is a great need for decks of cards, missing a few, in any case, other than in anyone aged under five). 
Still. It made no sense to him.
   He very carefully began to create a card house. 
Over time, and with some success, he carried this out, until there stood before him a towering construction, as big as half a car and standing nearly as high as his own shoulder.
   At the sound of someone’s early morning, closed eye yawn, from one of the bedrooms, as distant as could be in that house, the card house quickly collapsed, in a flurry of tens, twos, fours, red, eight's black, Aces, threes, Kings, Hearts, diamond-backs and Queens and Knaves, falling, as if to touch, but never, to meet.