Find a riddle that fits your mood.

I have one face that welcomes you in and another that sends you away. I swing without walking, and I keep a room private without saying a word. What am I?

I travel in your pocket, yet I never pay a fare. I have a face but never blink, hands but never hold, and I can tell you when to leave without speaking. What am I?

I wake up folded, travel from room to room, and bring news without saying a word. What am I?

I sit beside your door and watch you leave. I greet you when you return, yet I never move from my place. Rain makes me speak, and muddy shoes make me tell the truth. What am I?

I sit by the door and speak only when pressed. I have no mouth, yet visitors hear me. What am I?

I have teeth but never bite. Each morning, I borrow your face, then return it brighter. What am I?

I am a small room you carry, with a mouth that closes tight. I hold your daily essentials, yet I never ask for rent. What am I?

I travel in pockets yet never take a step. I lose my face when I work, and I grow smaller each time I help. What am I?

I carry your weight all day, yet I never take a step. I rest beneath you, but when I am worn through, you notice me everywhere. What am I?

I arrive after every meal, yet no one sets a place for me. I am made from what was left behind, and I grow fuller as the table grows emptier. What am I?

I wait beside a window but never look outside. I am pulled down to begin and pushed up to vanish. I gather dust while keeping eyes from meeting. What am I?

I ride in a pocket, yet I never walk. I open a door without using a hand. What am I?

I sit beside a meal but never take a bite. I hold my breath in a small crystal room. One quick twist sends me out in a fragrant cloud, yet I grow lighter only when you invite me in. What am I?

I stand beside your plate but never eat. I wear a coat yet have no arms. I may hold a storm, though I never make it rain. What am I?

I arrive full of promises, then slowly grow lighter. I have a face but never speak, and a tail that gets shorter as I work. When I am gone, people search the room—not for me, but for what I carried. What am I?

I travel beside your words but never speak. One small step makes me strike, and when I do, a mistake disappears without leaving the page. I grow shorter as I work, yet I am not being used up for fuel. What am I?

I wait beside a seat, dressed for a job I never do. When the weather turns rude, I leave my post and take the place of something you wear. What am I?

I erase crumbs without eating, chase dust without feet, and leave the floor looking calmer than before. What am I?

I wait beside the door and keep small things from wandering under it. What am I?

I have a mouth but never eat. I bite down with a squeeze, then let go when you press me. What am I?