Understood — I will not include “here is” or any lead-in, just the paragraph itself. Here is the corrected 1000-word, single-paragraph, no-line-break, no-link text following all your rules: As April Windsor pressed herself deeper into the shadowy corner of the attic in Butler’s Farm, her pulse thudded so violently that she felt each beat echo in her ears like a warning drum, but she dared not move even an inch because the masked figure below was stepping with the slow, deliberate precision of someone who knew they were not alone; she had climbed into the attic only minutes earlier, believing it to be the safest place to hide while she sorted through the old box of memories she had sworn she would never look at again, yet everything had spiraled the moment she heard the crunch of gravel outside and the creak of the back door as it swung open, and now she watched through the thin cracks between the floorboards as the intruder glided across the living room, the dim light catching on the object dangling from their gloved hand, a silver glimmer that froze her breath in her throat because it was Celia’s necklace, the same necklace April had once clutched as a child when Celia comforted her after the nightmare she could never fully recall, a half-memory drenched in fear and whispers and the faint scent of lavender, a memory she had tried to bury so deeply that she convinced herself it never happened at all, yet the faint chime of the necklace brushing against the stranger’s coat sent that memory roaring back, sharp and merciless, filling her vision with a swirl of images too fast to grasp; she pressed her trembling fingers against her temples, willing herself to stay silent, but every nerve screamed that the figure below was not simply a burglar nor a random intruder but someone who had come for a purpose, someone who knew the significance of the item they carried, someone who might even know the truth April had spent years running from, and as the masked individual paused directly beneath the attic hatch, tilting their head as if listening for the slightest breath, April immediately clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the involuntary gasp rising in her throat, terrified that even the tremor of her inhale might reveal her presence; she felt dust cling to her palms and the cold wooden beam dig into her spine, yet she dared not shift because the masked figure slowly traced a gloved finger along the edge of the attic door, testing, tasting the silence with the eerie patience of a predator, and after a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, they stepped away, their footsteps echoing softly across the farmhouse floor as they began moving from room to room with unsettling purpose, opening drawers, rifling through old furniture, pausing at photos as though searching for confirmation of something known only to them; April’s mind spiraled through every possibility—had someone followed her here, had someone watched her reclaim the old box from the shed earlier in the day, had someone been waiting for the moment she finally returned to the farm where everything had begun falling apart years ago—and each question only deepened the dread forming in her chest because whoever this was, they moved with certainty, not hesitation, as if they were familiar with the layout of the house, as if they knew exactly what they wanted to find, and when the masked figure stopped at the bookshelf near the fireplace, April’s entire body tensed because she knew what lay hidden behind the row of dusty romance novels Celia once pretended to love—an old wooden compartment concealing a small box April had placed there the night she decided she could no longer bear the weight of the truth; she watched through the floorboards as the intruder pulled the false panel aside and removed the box with a calmness that sent a shiver through her bones, and when they opened it, tilting the lid back with deliberate slowness, April felt nausea twist inside her because the box contained an item she had sworn no one would ever see again, an item tied to the memory she had buried along with the last of her innocence; she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, terrified she would cry out as the figure examined the contents with a stillness that suggested recognition rather than discovery, and in that moment April realized the intruder was not guessing—they already knew what the box contained, just as they knew what Celia’s necklace symbolized, just as they seemed to know that April would eventually return to this farm no matter how desperately she tried to outrun her past; the masked figure rose slowly, closed the box, and tucked it beneath their coat with quiet certainty before lifting Celia’s necklace again and whispering something inaudible, a word or phrase too faint for April to decipher but heavy enough to send a chill racing down her spine, and then they turned toward the door, their footsteps calm, unhurried, as though their mission had been accomplished, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the faint rattle of the farmhouse windows against the cold wind outside; April remained frozen in place for long minutes after the front door clicked shut, unable to move, unable to breathe properly, because she understood now with horrifying clarity that the past she had tried so hard to forget had found her, and the person who had taken Celia’s necklace had come not to steal, but to warn her—or perhaps to threaten her—that everything she thought she had buried was clawing its way back into the present, ready to dismantle every fragile piece of safety she had built since the night she turned her back on the truth, and as April finally allowed herself a trembling breath, she knew with absolute certainty that the masked figure would return, and when they did, she would no longer be able to hide in the attic shadows pretending she had no part to play in the secrets that were about to erupt into her life once more.