The snow that won't stop being rain

I'm standing on a slope I know by heart, digging a pit, but the layers keep rearranging themselves before I can read them — one moment a hard slab, the next a column of melt. Up top, the hut's door is locked and I can feel the whole mountain breathing slow, like it's deciding whether to hold still or let go. I wake up and my hands are still making that scraping motion against the sheets.