The burnt remains of this frame against the wall of the cabin. A name that means nothing written for nothing. There was a similar frame before Echo once, and a picture in it.
A round, smiling face, with freckles, or maybe a sunburn, or maybe both. A wild cloud of coppery, curly hair that is just too short to be weighted down and too long to stay in place. Creases at the corners of the eyes and yet youthful joy coloring the irises in vibrant browns and greens. Thin lips stretched into a smile. A memory of a beautiful portrait.
And the portrait is hanging in a frame unlike this one, expertly carved into leaves and flowers and painted gold and so polished it is reflective.
And the picture moves and smiles and the eyes trace something in the air and the person in the picture makes faces for fun.
And the surface of the picture is polished too and the picture is not a picture but you, Echo. A memory of you. In a mirror.
Echo looks at the empty, burnt frame and there is nothing. A blank, featureless square of cabin wall. Echo thinks that maybe, if this was still a mirror, it would look just the same. An empty wall with nothing in front of it.