Riddles

When I was little, my dad would spend quality time with me in the following manner: Plopping down on the couch and asking my younger self if I'd like to play riddles (in Russian, of course). I'd get super-excited and climb on my dad's belly. His eyelids heavy and slowly shutting like medieval city gates, he'd drawl something along the lines of, "What doesn't burn in a fire, doesn't drown in water, doesn't rot in the earth?" While I scratched my head and searched my tiny little literal brain for an answer, Dad was giving in to the Slumber God and, by the time I looked at him to deliver a half-baked answer, he'd was well on his way to bucolic Snooze Village.