Two in a corner, one in a room, zero in a house, but one in a shelter. What am I?

A father's child, a mother's child, yet no one's son.

Who am I?

Take one out and scratch my head, I am now black but once was red. What am I?

If your uncle’s sister is not your aunt, what relation is she to you?

Until it is measured, not known. Yet how you miss it when it has gone. What is it?

Only one color, but not one size,
Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies.
Present in sun, but not in rain,
Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.
What is it?

I am the largest in my family of fifty.
The youngest of our family lives separately from the rest of the family and so do I.
I am regarded as harsh and tough.
I am so large, you cut me in two equal halves,
each half would still be larger than the second largest member of the family.
Who am I?

As a whole I am both
safe and secure.

Behead me and I become
a place of meeting.

Behead me again and I am
the partner of ready.

Restore me, and I become
the domain of beasts.

What am I?

You see me once in June, twice in November, and not at all in May. What am I?

When you stop to look, you can always see me. But if you try to touch me, you can never feel me. Although you walk towards me, I remain the same distance from you. What am I?