Frank had grown up in a world of numbers and business deals. But deep down, his heart beat to a different rhythm - one of poetry and stories. While his father, William, saw the world through the lens of profit margins and market expansions, Frank's mind wandered to far-off lands and epic tales.This clash of ideals had been simmering for years, like a pot left too long on the stove. Frank tried to play the part of the dutiful son, but his dreams of becoming a writer kept bubbling up to the surface.Then, one day, it all came to a head. Frank couldn't take it anymore - living this double life was eating him up inside. So, he decided to come clean to his father. Man, you should've seen William's face when Frank told him he wanted to be a writer, not a merchant. It was like someone had just told him the stock market had crashed and his favorite horse had run away, all in one go.Now, William wasn't the type to take things lying down. Oh no, he had to come up with a plan. If Frank wanted to live in a world of make-believe, then by God, he was going to show him what real life was all about.Northumberland might as well have been on the moon as far as Frank was concerned. He'd heard stories about the wild north - rough folks, harsh landscapes, and not a decent bookshop for miles around.Frank knew he was being punished, but what could he do? It was either go along with his father's plan or risk being cut off entirely.Saying goodbye to his friends in London felt like attending his own funeral. They tried to cheer him up, spinning tales of grand adventures in the countryside, but Frank couldn't shake the feeling that he was being shipped off to the ends of the earth.As he saddled up his horse for the long journey north, Frank's emotions were all over the place. Part of him was scared stiff about what awaited him at Osbaldistone Hall. Would his uncle be just as stern and unyielding as his father? Would his cousins laugh at his city ways and love of poetry?But buried beneath all that fear was a tiny spark of excitement. This was, after all, the stuff that great stories were made of - a young hero venturing into the unknown, facing trials and tribulations. Maybe, just maybe, this exile would provide the inspiration he needed to write something truly great.As London faded into the distance behind him, Frank couldn't help but feel like he was riding into the pages of an unwritten book. The road ahead stretched out like a blank page, waiting to be filled with who knows what kind of adventures. Whatever awaited him in Northumberland, Frank was determined to face it head-on.With each clip-clop of his horse's hooves, Frank moved further from the world he knew and closer to a future shrouded in mystery. The familiar streets of London gave way to rolling countryside, and Frank couldn't shake the feeling that his life was about to change in ways he couldn't even imagine.The journey north seemed to stretch on forever. Frank's backside was sore from days in the saddle, and his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. But as the sun began to set on what felt like the hundredth day of travel, he caught his first glimpse of Osbaldistone Hall in the distance. The ancient stone building loomed on the horizon, a stark silhouette against the fading light. Frank's heart began to race. This was it - the moment of truth.