It's just a chair really. There's no reason for him to sit and gaze at it for hours on end. But to him it's her chair. When he pictures her she's in that chair. That image of her means home.
Mostly she sits and reads. The light wicker means that she can move her chair around to be near to the window during the day with the sunlight streaming into her lap or closer to the fire during the colder months the light flickering over her face.
Sometimes she stares into the flames or at the clouds or at nothing at all, just day dreaming and it thrills him that he doesn't know everything going on in that pretty head of hers. There's always some new mystery to be uncovered.
She sits in her chair late into the night opposite him talking about nothing and everything, looking at him with those blindingly blue eyes like she can see right into his soul and gesturing wildly when she gets particularly passionate about a point.
There had been one time when a deal had taken longer than he had anticipated and she'd met him eagerly at the door taking his hands and pushing him into her chair before climbing into his lap and kissing him hungrily and breathing his name.
She sits with her feet resting on a large pouf or cross legged or with her legs tucked underneath her curled up like a cat. Normally she is so full of movement but there are moments in time when she is perfectly calm and still and a breath of peace in his life.
It comforted him more than he could say to glance over and see her there to know that she would look up if he called her name and that she would allow him to wrap a blanket around her shoulders if he feared she was getting cold.
It was in that chair that she nursed their baby daughter. With her beautiful eyes and his thick curls His daughter had held his finger so tight as though trying to comfort him as his heart broke for his Bae would have adored a little sister.
Their whole life together can be seen in that chair and he plays the pictures through his head over and over. And that is where they stay. That is where they have always been. Belle had probably never even sat in that chair. He'd just found it in a room and moved it to his spinning room. She never read in the firelight or gasped his name in ecstasy or held their baby, another child for him to mourn. Their life together remains imagined, dreamed up by a lonely, foolish coward.
He speaks the words into the silent house, directing them to the cold, empty chair, "You're all alone. And it's all your own fault Rumplestiltskin."