Some people dream of their person constantly - ordinary dreams where they're just there, doing the crossword, maddeningly casual about having died. Some people wait years for a single one and feel robbed every morning. Neither is a verdict on how much you loved them, or they you.
Dreams are the sleeping brain filing the day, and grief is the biggest file it has ever handled. Some brains process it on-screen; some do it in the back room with the door shut. The ones who don't dream of them often carry a quiet, awful question - "why won't they visit me?" - as if dreams were sent rather than made. They're made. By you. Out of love and memory and leftover Tuesday. The absence of them says nothing about the love.
If the dreams are good, take them. Enjoy them without checking their theology. A free hour with them, in whatever format, is a free hour with them.
If the dreams are bad - the dying replayed, the searching-and-not-finding kind - know they usually soften as the rawness does. Waking from one, put a hand somewhere solid, name the room out loud, and let the day come get you. And if the nights are more frightening than sad, the support page is there at that hour too.