This is a film that often brings tears while watching and inspires people to recommend it afterward. It carries a profound message, a beautiful sorrow, a pure love, and a fierce faith. Could that be the recipe for life’s “miracle”?
The Story
Miracle in Cell No. 7 follows Lee Yong-go, a mentally challenged father, and his daughter Ye-seung. Desperate to buy her a Sailor Moon backpack, he’s falsely accused of murdering a girl—the daughter of a police chief. Wrongly convicted, Yong-go lands in Cell No. 7 for his final days, which turn out to be his most meaningful. He awakens the lingering goodness in his fellow inmates and the humanity of guard Min-hwan. Before his execution, Yong-go fulfills his promise, gifting Ye-seung that Sailor Moon backpack for her birthday.
A Meaningful Message and Beautiful Sorrow
Does right or wrong matter more than humanity? Exploring Buddhism, I learned there’s no “right” or “wrong”—only “good” and “not good.” Wisdom that skips judgment spares us the pain of clinging to ignorance. Right and wrong are ego’s inventions—so when we claim we’re right, someone else must be wrong, even if they aren’t.
In the film, the police chief, shattered by his daughter’s death, betrays the justice he serves. He tramples his own beliefs—and the trust placed in him as a lawman—to frame Yong-go. In truth, Yong-go tried to save the girl after she slipped and hit her head. The chief ignores that Yong-go, too, is a father caring for his little Ye-seung.
Contrast him with Min-hwan, a guard who initially despises Yong-go, even beating him, having lost a child himself. But after Yong-go saves his life, Min-hwan sees the absurdity and fights within his limits to alter the sentence. He bends rules—sneaking Ye-seung in daily to see her dad, persuading a lawyer, enlisting her teacher’s help, and standing still instead of ordering his men to stop Yong-go and Ye-seung as they climb into a hot air balloon.
By the end, Min-hwan grows quieter, staring ahead. His silhouette, leaning against a desk in an empty office before Yong-go’s trial, etches into viewers’ minds—a good man facing reality’s harsh bounds.
The inmates loathe Yong-go at first—or rather, the crime he’s forced to bear. They greet him with blows and scorn, seasoned criminals despising a supposed monster. Yet later, they rally to reunite father and daughter, clear his name, and help them escape, risking harsher sentences themselves.
When did they change? Goodness always dwells within us—circumstance just clouds it. Once they grasp justice, they’ll sacrifice everything to uphold it.
This message rings truer paired with life’s poignant sadness. We’re born, grow, strive—but can’t fully undo the injustices our kind inflict. Worse, those with education, wealth, status, and cunning wield them to crush the weak and flawed, hearts cold to mercy.
The more we fixate on ourselves, the further we drift from truth. Yet, whether called Buddha, God, or Allah, truth watches over us. A sacred spark endures, nudging us toward goodness, even if the path is grueling and the finish line elusive.
Yong-go is executed on Ye-seung’s birthday, December 23rd.
Pure Love and Fierce Faith
The hot air balloon snagging on barbed wire stirs a flicker of disappointment. We hope for a miracle then—something grand, shaped by our longing.
Miracles don’t bend to our whims. The miracle is Yong-go’s pure love, confessing to save his daughter with a mind that can’t reason; it’s Ye-seung’s bright, clever devotion to her imperfect dad; it’s the flawed inmates striving for good; it’s stern Min-hwan breaking protocol.
They all hold a faith to do what’s right and beautiful for those they deem worthy.
The scene of father and daughter gazing at the sky from the balloon is a true fairy tale. Fairy tales reflect our dreams and trust in goodness, the hope that “kindness reaps kindness.” This tale of a father fuels Ye-seung’s growth, giving her the strength to prove Yong-go’s innocence and uphold justice—like the Sailor Moon she adored as a child.
That’s what love and faith can do, not hate.
Without love, we wither; without faith, every path feels heavy. Life tests us relentlessly but never bars us from rising, dreaming, and refining ourselves.
The film opens and closes with grown-up Ye-seung leaving the prison, walking under a snowy sky. She spots a balloon caught on barbed wire. Memories flood back—those precious moments aloft with her dad, his faint goodbye echoing.
Snowflakes, nature’s loveliest creations, don’t cling to their beauty forever. They melt, merging back into the world.
In Place of a Conclusion
Miracle in Cell No. 7 suits viewers of all ages—watch it solo or with loved ones.
Don’t shy from crying—it’s okay to weep at life’s wrongs. If you can still shed tears for injustice, there’s hope you’ll act to change it, starting within yourself.
The film has funny bits too—laugh freely, cry, and emerge cherishing your life more.
Hold fast in tough times to spot the miracle, okay?
