I am one of three volunteers who keep the heritage centre open on Saturdays. Our building is a converted bank from the late 1920s, the main room still has the old vault door propped open for the kids' craft corner, and the back reading room holds the local-history binders, a temperamental microfiche reader, and a flat-screen TV that someone donated in 2021.
We mounted it on the wall, plugged in a small streaming stick we already owned, and walked away. Three years later, not one visitor has asked why it is there or how it works. The Saturday history club plays old parade footage on it during their meetings. A retired schoolteacher uses it to show the grandkids what the old hockey rink looked like. A woman researching her great-grandfather brought in a home-recorded tape one morning and asked if we could dub it.
That is the whole job. No login rotation, no firmware updates, no donor thank-you letters to write. The screen just sits there until somebody needs it. It is the only piece of donated equipment in the building that has required zero follow-up from me, which is the highest compliment I can think of for any setup. I read this short essay recently that captured the idea better than I could, and I have pointed half a dozen new volunteers to it already when they ask why the cabinet stays locked.