What’s stepped on in order to be carved? Made in order to be taken. Or chosen at a fork?

I am the warm heart of your home where fire crackles and cooks your meals. Stone or brick surrounds my glowing flames. Families gather around me on cold nights sharing stories. What am I?

Folded neatly by your side, I wait through courses served with pride. I save your clothes from every stain, though I myself won’t stay the same.

They say, I am mightier than the sword It’s true, but only if the enemy can read.

I bind and mend with a sticky embrace, sealing secrets in a silent race. My roll spins round with adhesive grace, holding things in their rightful place.