A dream about headstones wearing down to nothing

I'm walking the rows and every stone is softer than it should be, the letters blurring into the granite like rain erasing a text. I keep counting the names and never land on the same number twice, and the grass is doing that thing where it's not quite wet, just holding the damp in a way that means something. Nobody's buried here yet, I realise, and that's the part that cracks the dream open — the whole cemetery is just waiting for a date that never gets carved.