It happened this year in 1992, when I was a student at Baumanka.
We had a thermal villa. I don’t know how old she was, but I think she was 70. She walked slowly, walking, talking quietly. She knew her subject, demanded strict discipline from students, did not let those who were late.
Our lessons on her subject were held late in the evening, in the distant wing of the main corps. Baumanka was empty by evening and many long corridors were turned off for savings purposes. High ceilings, dark walls – right “Hogwards.”
One day, entering the alma mater, they read a hanged necrologue with a photo of Vilyaevskaya. It’s a pity, grandmother, but it’s still the age. Who will teach therapy?

On the evening of the same day, the whole group was waiting in the distant audience for a new teacher.
There was no light in the adjacent corridor, and the wind was blowing huge trees outside the window, throwing away the shadowy shadows. The door to the audience was open. Suddenly in the corridor he heard staring steps. Students revived, jokes about the average age of the pre-educational staff of the department of thermech, comparisons with the general secretaries and even jokes about the ghost of Vilyaevskaya. The steps were steadily approaching and increasingly resembling what we were accustomed to hearing. A tense silence prevailed.

...from a dark hole into the open door of the audience, bowing in the shell, entered... Vilyaevskaya!
Some in the early morning - most in shock. After all, the necrolog with the photo read everyone. Vilyaevskaya looked at our confused faces:
My twin sister died, she worked at the department too.