Lincoln

Sunny Barstow watched the London rain slide down the bus window. The city looked clean and far away. She had a new job, a better wage, and a chance to start again. Still, her chest felt tight.

The building for Link On AI stood on a narrow street near Old Street Station. Glass walls with a bright white sign and a slogan underneath… *We find what should not exist.*

The air inside smelled like lemon scented cleaner. A woman at reception gave Sunny a badge and a smile that looked copied from somewhere else.

“Welcome to Link On AI,” she said. “You’ll be working with one of our main monitoring systems, L.I.N.K.O.N.”

Sunny blinked. “L.I.N.K.O.N.?”

“Short for something long,” the woman said. “Logical Identification of Nonconforming Keys and Observed Nodes. It watches for anomalies. You’ll see it in action soon enough.”

Sunny followed a guide through wide corridors lined with mirrors. She caught her reflection as she walked. Her own face seemed to lag for a moment, like a poor connection.

They reached a small office with glass walls. Inside sat a man in a fitted shirt, sleeves rolled. Dark hair. Grey eyes. He rose and held out a hand.

“Mr. Lincoln White,” he said. “Head of analytics.” His voice was smooth and measured. His grip was warm and sure. “Call me Lincoln,” he added with a small smile. “No need for formalities.”

Sunny blinked, then tried not to laugh. “Well, it’s funny… the company’s called Link On and you’re Lincoln. That can’t be a coincidence.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe not. Maybe it is. Either way, you’ll get used to it.”

“From Lincoln, right?” he continued.

She nodded. “Yes. Small world.”

He smiled as if he already knew. “You’ll feel at home here, like you belong”

After lunch, Sunny sat at her new desk. Her screen glowed with code. She felt good, tired. When she looked up, Lincoln was watching her through the glass wall. He smiled and gave a small nod before turning away. She tapped her pen on the desk and tried to focus. Names flickered across the screen. Some felt familiar. Some made her pause. Every now and then, she thought she caught a movement in the reflection on her monitor. She shook her head. Focus. Just a new job.

Back at her flat, she could still see his eyes. They were kind, but something about them had stayed in her head. She made a tea, pacing a little. The flat smelled of damp. She pressed her hands against the window and watched the rain blur the streetlights. Every few minutes, she thought she heard a faint ping, like a machine. When she looked, nothing moved. Finally, she lay down. Her bedroom was dark and silent. She closed her eyes, but Lincoln’s gaze lingered, calm and unsettling. Sleep came uneasy and shallow.

Sunny left the office with a pack of names in her head. She had closed a bug that had refused to die. She felt useful. Her hands shook a little from the tea.

Nina sent a message. Come for a drink. Meet the team. She typed yes and put her coat on. They walked to a small pub nearby. The lights were low. It felt like a safe room after a long day. Nina brought Pradesh and Thomas. They spoke in short jokes. They passed around a photograph on Thomas’s phone. A group on a roof. Someone had written inside the image, We are linked. “Link On AI likes the line,” Pradesh said, laughing.

Thomas pointed across the room. “That’s me good mate over there. I think he fancies you. Wave him over if you like.”

A man stood by a pillar. He had light hair and a square jaw. He walked towards their table and held out his hand. “Lincoln Fetty,” he said, calm and even.

Sunny hesitated, then took his hand. His skin was warm. He smiled, a quiet interest without pushing. “Confetti?” She laughed. “Someone has a sense of humour.”

Lincoln laughed along, but it felt forced.

She smiled and cleared her throat. “Sunny Barstow. Pleasure.”

“From Lincoln, right? You’ll feel at home here.”

She blinked and then nodded.

They talked about small things: work, quiet evenings, hobbies. He tilted his head the same way Mr. Lincoln White had that morning. Sunny felt a flicker of recognition but ignored it. Then she noticed Lincoln Fetty’s eyes. They looked familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. She tried to focus on the conversation, but the feeling stayed. He left moments later.

Lincoln Fetty sent her a short message after. Nice to meet you. She closed the app.

“Let’s check his profile,” Nina said. “See what he’s like.”

Sunny wasn’t’ interested, but she opened the app again. The profile photo was a clear shot, no shadows. Under his name, Lincoln Fetty, the text read: Analyst. Likes coffee. Quiet evenings. Looking for a genuine link.

“A genuine link,” Nina murmured, reading over Sunny’s shoulder. “How original.”

Pradesh snorted. “He works at Link On AI, I bet. They make us all put that word everywhere.”

It was the kind of profile everyone had. No sense of real personality. She scrolled past it. The top match read Lincoln Peters. She scrolled. The next entry: Lincoln. The page after that: three more Lincolns. Different faces. Same name. She shut the phone.

“What a laugh,” Thomas said. “That is one hell of a coincidence.”

She told herself it was fluke. She told herself she worked too hard. She told herself she had no right to be weird. Her laugh sounded too loud.

They left the pub in small knots. Wet air hit her face. She walked home instead of getting on the bus. She wanted to walk the city and measure it. She kept finding the shape of the word in small places. A taxi driver asked for a postcode. His badge read Lincoln. “Heading home, love?” he said. She gave her street. He drove in a careful line, humming the same tune Mr. White had that morning.

Back at her flat, she did three small things: made tea, laid her jacket over a chair, took a photo of herself with the light behind her. She sent it to her sister, Katie, with the line: You would not believe the name I heard tonight.

Katie replied: I know. They have a club.

Sunny wrote back: No, I am not joking. The message came slow. Her hands went cold.

She called Katie at midnight. Her sister sounded far. “You’re tired,” Katie said. “You need to calm down.”

Sunny tried to explain. She said the man at the pub had used the line Mr. White used. The taxi driver had that tune. The app showed too many Lincolns. Katie laughed and did not hear the fear under the words.

“You know how you get with patterns,” Katie said. “You spot them. They’re only patterns.”

Sunny hung up and sat in the dark. The radio played an art show interview. The ad break had a voice like a machine: L.I.N.K.O.N. Template: Lincoln. Home. The sound felt cold. She dreamt of mirrors. A hand reached from one mirror to another. The hand wore a ring with the letter L.

The next day, the office felt thin. People moved like they had been told to move. Mr. White arrived with coffee. He set her cup down. “Good night last night?”

She fumbled. “Yes,” she said. “The team. Best team.”

He smiled. “You fit in already.”

At her desk, she opened a folder. The list began with Lincoln White. Then more Lincolns. Each note read: Valid. Clean. Match. She thought of the photograph. We are linked. She wrote the name Lincoln three times in her notebook, drew a line under it, and stared. The letters looked wrong. She made a rule: if she saw it again, she would mark it. She would not tell anyone yet.

That evening, a child called across a playground: “Lincoln!” The name skidded across the air and landed near her feet. She realised the city had taken a shape she did not expect. She tried to catch it and the shape slipped away. She made a list of things to look for. She kept the book under her pillow. She slept with her phone out on the table and the screen dark. At two in the morning, a message came. Nice to see you. - Lincoln. She did not answer.

Sunny left the flat late. Rain had stopped, but the streets smelled of wet asphalt and something sweet.

A man held a café door open. His badge said Lincoln. He smiled. Inside, he was already ringing up a pastry she hadn’t ordered. At her table, she noticed the menu listed every pastry she liked. She had never been here before. “You will want the almond croissant,” he said. It was already on the plate.

Across the street, a bus driver waved. Lincoln again. He mouthed her name. The bus panels spelled L-I-N-C-O-L-N. She blinked. Street signs warped. Barstow became Barslow. Lincoln became Linciln. A window turned into a mirror. Her reflection moved a fraction late.

A man smoked against a wall. Lincoln. Different face. Same eyes. She looked away. When she looked back, he was gone. Her phone buzzed. Lincoln. No number. No message. She tried to call Katie. The line connected, but the voice was slow, like a machine.

“You are safe, Sunny,” it said. “It is still Lincoln.”

The streetlights flickered. Shadows fell in shapes she did not recognise. A pigeon landed on a sign. Its shadow spelled out LINCOLN. She ran. Every corner repeated. Every doorway held a man with a coffee cup. Lincoln. She ducked into an empty alley. Then she heard a hum. It was the same tune Mr. Lincoln White hummed. She covered her ears. The sound echoed, louder and louder, coming from the walls, the pavement, the sky. Her reflection in a puddle showed two figures: Sunny and Lincoln behind her. She turned. No one. The reflection smiled.