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I keep no house yet cross every threshold by permission alone. I’m richest when the sun is poor, and every dawn bankrupts me. Feed me numbers: subtract what I can’t return, divide what has no beat—and all that’s left is red. What am I?

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Born at your heels when the sky forgives the light, I stretch to rule your height, then kneel at noon. I fear a single spark more than a thousand moons, and I die the moment you face my maker. What am I?

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I hold the date you lose, the name you can’t recall, and a tiny dash that measures everything you did and didn’t do. I stand above those below and below those who pass. Read me once—and I read you forever. What am I?